The Mountain Always Leads
by lynne-monstr
Summary: Most avalanche victims die from suffocation. Austria was observing Switzerland's downhill technique, and most definitely not spying, when he saw it happen. Written for hc bingo.


Written for hc bingo for the square: _Asphyxiation_

Warnings: confined spaces

* * *

Austria was preparing for war.

Not in the traditional sense, he silently amended, as this battle was far more civilized than horses and blood and dirt. For one, he had finger sandwiches and a nice dessert wine. Which was admittedly standard for him while on the march but this time his objective wasn't land or power so much as competitive pride.

He was going to reclaim his dominancy over the alpine skiing world if it killed him.

Binoculars in hand, he snuck to the secluded area that Switzerland favored for ski practice. The other nation was good, Austria had to admit. And getting better every year. Neatly printing a few more observations of his rival's technique into his notebook, he snapped the cover shut and put it away. Raising the binoculars once more, he brought Switzerland into focus for a last look. Then he would pack up and head for home. Chopin was calling and he was tired and wanted cake.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. The slab of snow cracked off from the slope around Switzerland and slid downwards, shattering as it fell and swallowing him whole. What felt like centuries later, the thunder of sound reached Austria's ears.

The roar snapped him out of his stupor.

"Switzerland," he couldn't help but breathe his former friend's name.

His first instinct was split between blindly dashing towards the site of the avalanche and simply turning around and leaving. The coldness of the latter didn't bother him. Thinking of their childhood friendship hurt and he'd found over the years that the best solution was simply not to, until it had finally become second nature. Besides, Switzerland was an old and competent nation, capable of taking care of himself, and their days of swooping in to save each other (not that he did much of the saving, he ruefully admitted) were long over.

But he still remembered in stark clarity how Switzerland was there for him and his people with food and aid in the aftermath of the Second World War, when he so desperately needed help. It was something he was still grateful for.

It didn't matter that their close friendship was all but a tattered memory; he couldn't stand by and not act. With a muttered curse, he strapped on his skis and raced as fast as he could towards the mess of fallen snow.

.

Flying down the slopes, wind in his face, Switzerland felt free for the first time in weeks. He was deep in his own mountains, far from any humans, nations, and worries of economic instability. Skiing was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself, and while the expense of the equipment made him cringe, he could admit in times like these that it was well worth it. The defeat on Austria's face in the most recent Olympics didn't hurt either, he remembered with pride.

A cracking noise around him was the sole indication of danger before the mountain flew out beneath his feet. He felt the snow engulf him and a blinding pain in his arm before the world vanished in a sea of white.

He awoke to a pounding in his head and the sensation of being cold and wet. Opening his eyes, his heart skipped a beat as he realized he'd gone blind. Nothing of his surroundings pierced the total blackness. A burst of adrenaline shot through him and he thrashed, anxiety only deepening when he found himself completely immobilized, as if encased in cement. His eyes were fine, he realized with dread; that wasn't the problem.

He'd been buried by the avalanche.

The panic came again, but he shoved it down. As a nation, this couldn't kill him. Another more disturbing thought came to mind. He wouldn't die here, but unless the snow shifted and released him, he could be trapped for a very, very long time. No, he told himself, he wouldn't let that happen. There had to be a way out.

"Calm down," he muttered to himself. The sound of his voice was somehow reassuring in the dark.

With the economy monopolizing everyone's time, he wondered how long it would take before the nations around him noticed his absence, or if they would simply think he was being reclusive, as he knew he tended towards. Even if they did notice he was missing there was no way for them to know what happened or where he was.

He was on his own.

Thinking of the beacon he carried in order to appease his safety-conscious human leaders, he almost laughed aloud in a fit of black humor. It was busy transmitting his location, but with no one on the receiving end, he may as well be screaming into the abyss of snow for all the good it would do.

He closed his eyes and fought to keep a clear head. He'd been a soldier for hire in another lifetime before embarking on a lonely policy of armed neutrality. Being without backup or support was nothing new and he'd proved time and time again that there wasn't anything life could throw at him that he couldn't handle.

With that in mind, he took a deep breath to steady himself and tried again to move. His left arm was jammed against his side and he couldn't budge his legs at all, but his right arm was trapped in front of his face and he found he was able to coax some motion from it. When he tried to nudge it further, a burst of agony raced out from near his bicep and he grunted at the unexpected pain.

Now he remembered. He must have broken it in the initial fall.

He ignored the pain and moved the injured arm. It was a depressingly short range of motion. But it confirmed what he suspected; there was a sliver of space in front of his chest and face.

The air in here couldn't last forever, he realized with a start. He wondered what would happen when it ran out. If he would pass out and spend the years trapped and unconsciousness, or if the strength from his land and people would somehow keep him awake to suffocate again and again until some external force cracked open the prison of snow. Neither option sounded good.

Already, he could feel his breath coming quicker and his heartbeat pounding in a way that was only partially due to his emotions. It was a sign that his supply of breathable air was already starting to run out.

.

Austria had lost all sense of time since he saw Switzerland go under. He was standing near that same spot now and could find no trace of him.

The sun glared mockingly off the pebbled white snow surrounding him. It was bright, even behind tinted goggles. In any other circumstance it would be a gorgeous day. Now it was a nightmare. He had all the visibility in the world yet couldn't see the one thing he was searching for.

He fiddled with his receiver, part of the emergency equipment he had helped standardize, and carried as a matter of routine. He was annoyed, he told himself fiercely, staring at the silent device. Not scared for Switzerland, annoyed at the inconvenience of the search. "That complete moron," he ground out. "What are you thinking. Turn your damn transmitter on."

Because if Switzerland wasn't using the stupid thing himself, it did absolutely no good.

He wished he could communicate with Switzerland, if for no other reason than to tell him he was coming, that he would find him. Austria didn't want to imagine what it felt like to be trapped and suffocating and cold and absolutely sure you were alone. Their relationship might be more awkward and uncomfortable than friendly these days, but the thought of someone he still cared for stuck like that made his stomach turn.

With a curl of his lip, it dawned on him that it would be just like Switzerland to be cheap and use an ancient beacon (studiously ignoring the fact that his wasn't exactly top of the line either) that broadcasted on an outdated frequency. Fumbling with the device, he set it to pick up the lower wavelength and almost sagged in relief when the signal that could only be Switzerland produced a steady stream of beeps.

"You and I are probably the last two people in Europe with technology this old," he said aloud to an absent Switzerland.

He imagined if the blonde were here, he'd receive a harsh glare for that comment. The mental image simultaneously comforted him and renewed the frantic worry that had been steadily building since the avalanche.

Orienting himself to face the direction where the beeps were loudest, he followed the trail.

.

He was having tea with Liechtenstein. She had done an excellent job of setting the table and the familiar sight of the inexpensive brands they both enjoyed made him smile.

Liechtenstein looked at him sternly from across the table, the bow in her hair bobbing as she spoke and contrasting with her military uniform, a match to his own, "…you work so hard and I wish I could see you more." She smiled sweetly, teeth showing. "But right now I really can't be bothered to dig you out."

She threw her tea at him and it was freezing cold.

"You shouldn't waste tea like that," he scolded absently.

Cold, so cold. And dark.

"Liechtenstein?" he asked weakly.

His voice brought him back to reality, which was unfortunate. Reality came with headaches and dizziness and nowhere to go. A tea party with his favorite person in the world was much nicer.

With his injured right arm, he scratched at the hard snow, knowing it was a useless effort. Even if the impossible happened and he was able to widen the hole without collapsing it, there was no guarantee the direction in front of him was up. He ceased his efforts and lay still, the steady in and out of breathing useless air all that kept him company in the darkness.

.

He was getting closer. He knew he was close. But so far there was no indication that another person had ever existed on the mountainside.

"Switzerland, you annoying idiot who can't ski. Where are you!" The shout was more out of uneasy frustration than any hope that it would work.

His only response was the blinding glare of white around him and clear blue above.

"Your stupid face better appreciate this," he mumbled under his breath, intent on his search. He was supposed to be the one who did things the hard way, not Switzerland. "I should be having cake right now." And rest, he wanted that, too. He felt exhausted, but it didn't matter and he pushed on.

He glared at the device beeping in his hand. This was as close as it could bring him and he continued to meticulously prod the snow with the sharp end of his ski pole. It yielded nothing but more snow. He felt the weight of each successive failure heavily. With every passing minute, the urge to search faster became harder to ignore, but he forced himself to keep a steady rhythm in the same way he would at the piano. In this case, methodical meant the difference between success and failure, and Austria hated to lose.

.

There was an arrow in his butt.

Something about that didn't seem right, but his thinking was scattered and unstable and he was unable to pull it back together. A long time ago, he recalled vaguely; that happened a long time ago. That wasn't right either. He wasn't the one who got hit in that embarrassing spot.

Then what was poking at him?

A remote part of himself noticed his body was gasping for air, but that didn't seem important so he set it aside. The memory of the arrow danced tantalizingly out of reach and made him feel warm and happy. But that was wrong, too. He was supposed to feel angry and irritated, he remembered, and then the nausea came again and he let go of the thought.

Where was Liechtenstein, he wondered. He wanted her back, even if she threw tea/snow at him.

A shaft of sunlight pieced the blackness and he blinked several times before shutting his eyes against the blinding light. But passivity never suited him and he forced his eyes back open. The hole above him widened and he took great heaves of fresh air and looked towards the light in confusion.

Silhouetted dark against the sun streaming in, he imagined he recognized Austria's frantic face behind tinted goggles.

"Austria?" He managed to find his voice, the words coming out slurred. "What are you doing here?" If he was going to hallucinate a rescue, his mind had seriously poor choice in saviors. He resolved to take the matter up with himself later.

His vision went dark again and this time it was him, not lack of light at fault. He may or may not have heard an exasperated, "What does it look like I'm doing, idiot."

Before slipping into unconsciousness with a garbled, "It was _your_ butt," he felt himself being pulled from the snow, familiar arms clutching him tightly.

.

The first thing Switzerland noticed upon awakening was that he was in a bed. Wearing what felt like his pink frilly nightgown (Liechtenstein sewed him a new one every so often as the old became worn beyond repair. It had become somewhat of a tradition between them). And he wasn't alone, if the warmth to his right was any indication.

Pain flared suddenly in his upper arm and he winced, eyes snapping open. Glancing down and determinedly avoiding looking at whoever might be next to him, he saw his right arm encased in a makeshift sling.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore it and looked around to in an effort to distract himself. He was in his own bedroom and although it was dark outside, the lights were all still on. It was a shameful waste of electricity.

Austria was fast asleep in a chair from the kitchen, maneuvered into place next to his side of the bed. The usually refined nation was slumped in the uncomfortable wooden seat, hair in disarray and glasses threatening to fall off his face where his head was drooped almost against his chest, still in ski pants and an undershirt. Both sockless feet were propped up on the mattress at the end of the bed.

So his presence earlier wasn't a hallucination. Switzerland didn't know whether to be relieved or upset by that. How did Austria find him, or even know he was in trouble? The silent room gave no answer.

For a crazy moment, he nearly threw centuries of animosity aside, almost called out to his childhood friend to demand that he leave that uncomfortable chair and join them in the bed and get some proper rest. Which brought him back to his original question. If it wasn't Austria in the bed, then who was it?

Apprehensively, he turned his head and was greeted with large, green eyes. Liechtenstein. Of course. The tension in his shoulders melted away and he smiled softly at her.

"I was worried," she whispered. "I hope you don't mind that I'm here."

"Not at all. I'm glad." He kept his voice low, as well.

She pursed her lips. "Austria called me. He said you'd be happier to see me than him." Her eyes bored into him questioningly, growing even wider. "You two are so alike. Why are you so mean to each other?"

"Because," Switzerland looked away as if physically searching for an answer. His eyes rested on the table beside his bed where, to his great surprise, his sidearm lay. "You brought my gun," he said in slight wonderment, reaching out to lay the hand of his good arm over the weapon's grip. He smiled at the familiar contours beneath his fingers. In his current physical state, he was loathe to handle it, but its presence was a deep comfort he hadn't been expecting.

But Liechtenstein didn't know the code to his gun safe; no one did. Not withdrawing his hand, he looked back over. "How did you—"

"I didn't." She seemed to know what he was asking, and nodded at the sleeping figure in the chair. "He figured it out. He knows you very well."

His code was a combination of obscure dates in Swiss history, small events that had no meaning to the rest of Europe, only to him. The fact that Austria apparently knew them all stirred an emotion he was unwilling to classify and shocked him into silence. He made a note to change the combination at first opportunity.

He was saved from finding an adequate reply by Austria's voice breaking the silence.

"You're awake." He was sitting up straight in the chair, feet planted on the floor, and staring at him with a strange expression behind glasses that were firmly back in place.

Switzerland found he had no idea what to say and so kept his silence. The stalemate stretched uneasily, like it tended to do in all their more recent interactions. He did retract his hand from the gun though. That was only polite.

Violet eyes tracked the movement and he could almost make out the barest of smiles on Austria's lips. "I shouldn't be surprised. Your idea of hospitality always did need work." It was said fondly, with an almost sad reminiscence that took the sting from the words.

"Would you prefer I shoot you? You always were a demanding guest," he volleyed back, struggling to sit up one-handed. The sling threw his balance off, but he managed.

That earned him a quirked eyebrow and exasperated huff before Austria abruptly stood. "I'll be going now." His eyes roved up and down over Switzerland in the bed, as if reassuring himself he was actually there, then ran a hand through dark hair. It did nothing to calm the chaotic mess, and actually caused several more tufts to jut out wildly.

Before Switzerland could decide on a reaction to that, Austria turned and left. From the side of his vision, he noticed Liechtenstein sit up, mirroring his prior action.

"Wait!" The high voice took them both by surprise. It was Liechtenstein, head darting back and forth rapidly between them. Austria froze in the open doorway, his back facing them. "You should stay, Austria. We'd both like you to."

Switzerland's hand fisted in the blanket pooled around his waist and whipped his head around to glower indignantly at the source of the blatant lie. He heard Austria give a small cough and, eyes flicking in his direction, saw the long line of his back tense.

Still in the doorway, Austria turned around to regard them. His expression softened as he looked at Liechtenstein. "It's always a pleasure seeing you," he said with a rare genuine smile. Eyes shifting to him, he gave what most others would have mistaken for a grimace, but Switzerland saw the hidden amusement at the corners. "You should know that the cake in this house is of atrociously poor quality, though the coffee was passable." The words were harsh, but the tone was light, as if the insult were more out of habit than malice.

With one last nod at Liechtenstein and a quiet, "Take care of him," Austria turned again and left.

"Unsociable ass," Switzerland muttered after him, though the words were halfhearted. In a way he was relieved; this saved them both from what was sure to have been a long string of awkward moments.

Settling back into the bed, he let Liechtenstein dote on him and made a note to send a box of his finest chocolates to Vienna. It wasn't a proper thank you, but he knew Austria would understand him anyway.


End file.
